


John's Decision

by Hope_Austen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Divorce, M/M, Miscarriage mention, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Suicide Attempt, WARNING: several triggers within the story; please heed tags, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:57:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4043179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope_Austen/pseuds/Hope_Austen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John regained his senses, “Wh- What?”</p>
<p>“My decision, John. Try to keep up would you?” Moriarty admonished him. “I can’t decide. One of them has to die and I can’t choose. You see, they’ve both greatly disappointed me and yet, they’re both such fascinating specimens. I thought I’d keep one of them around. After all, even I get bored sometimes and both of them can provide a good challenge when provoked. Anyway, that’s where you come in.”</p>
<p>John felt like his blood had frozen instantly inside his veins. The realization of Moriarty’s plan sank in quickly. John would be the one who decides who dies—Sherlock or Mary. </p>
<p>“Oh, God,” John whispered in horror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John's Decision

The warehouse was cold and damp and any natural light coming from the small windows near the ceiling lost its intensity by the time it reached the floor below. John was brusquely handled into an open space, his senses reduced because of the blindfold securely tied around his head. Luckily his arms were free, although his left one was in a massive grip no doubt by a large male. He knew he’d been taken somewhere near the river, for even though he had been stuffed inside a car boot, he’d learned from “experience” how to gauge and memorize directions when senses were hindered. Suddenly, an eerily familiar voice pierced the thick, pungent air around him.

“Hellooooo, Dr. Watson,” James Moriarty cackled. “Such a pleasure to see you again.”

John’s back stiffened, jaw clenched and every hair on his neck stood at attention.

“I believe the last time I saw you, you were at my trial … or one of them, anyway,” said Moriarty dismissively.

As Moriarty spoke, John could feel the man’s presence getting closer until it felt like he was being wrapped in a cloak of dread.

“You can talk, Johnny boy. It’s Ok. I don’t have snipers fixed to kill you this time.”

“You’re supposed to be dead,” John seethed.

“Ah finally, words! I was getting worried,” Moriarty teased. “Dear, John, do you really think death can stop me? “

“What do you want?” John spat.

Moriarty walked around the blindfolded doctor and John suddenly felt exposed and extremely vulnerable. If Moriarty meant to kill him, John wished he would just get it over with.

“So impatient,” Moriarty chided. “You see, I need you to do me a favor. I have a decision to make and I’m having a bit of trouble. So I thought a military man such as yourself would be able to do it for me, you know, since you have to make split-second decisions during wartime.”

“We’re not at war,” John snorted.

“We most certainly are,” Moriarty hissed.

Off to John’s right there was an inordinate amount of scuffling, footsteps and muffled pleas. Then, there seemed to be several people amassing in front of him, but only one of them making any vocal noise. The rest of the sounds were just a combination of the whoosh and rubbing of fabric, shuffling footsteps and a lot of extraneous clicks, thuds and stomps. John recognized the female’s high-pitched mumble. “Mary?!” he yelled, to which the woman grunted in the affirmative.

“Oh, no fair. You peeked,” quipped Moriarty. “No matter. I really can’t wait for you to see the rest of your surprise.”

At some unknown signal, the large hand that was immobilizing John’s forearm moved and yanked the blindfold from his head. As John blinked furiously, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, he could make out the figure of Mary about three meters away, mouth taped shut, on her knees, facing him, hands secured behind her back. Her make-up was smeared and her eyes looked weary. John looked at her and, although they had been in the middle of divorce proceedings, he still felt compassion toward her … still felt a sense of gratefulness for the meaning she had brought back into his life after Sherlock had jumped from Barts. She and John had been through so much as they suffered together through the miscarriage of their child and then the freefall of their marriage. _So much pain and sadness_ , John thought. He gave her a quick, assuring smile, although he was feeling anything but confident at that moment.

He then turned his focus to the figure immediately to her left. This person was in the exact same predicament. But unlike Mary, this person’s head was bowed. The intermittent light was of no use as the figure kneeled within one of the many shadowy areas of the floor. Suddenly the figure lifted its head and John was able to make out sharp cheekbones and a familiar face. He felt as if his heart had stopped beating.

“Sherlock,” he gasped.

“Surprise!” squealed Moriarty. “Your beloved-,“ he sang. “… and your wife,” he drawled.

John couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock, and Sherlock’s reciprocating stare felt to John like it was penetrating his soul. John noticed that a small bruise was starting to form on the side of Sherlock’s face. No doubt a result of a shared deduction that hadn’t been appreciated. Both men tried to simultaneously read each other’s thoughts and attempted to send each other non-verbal signals. The problem was that under such stressful conditions and the blinding cover of sentiment, neither one could formulate a coherent thought.

“So, you can see why I’m having such a tough time making a decision, can’t you?” Moriarty interrupted the stare down.

John regained his senses, “Wh- What?”

“My decision, John. Try to keep up would you?” Moriarty admonished him. “I can’t decide. One of them has to die and I can’t choose. You see, they’ve both greatly disappointed me and yet, they’re both such fascinating specimens. I thought I’d keep one of them around for a while. After all, even I get bored sometimes and both of them can provide a good challenge when provoked. Anyway, that’s where you come in.”

John felt like his blood had frozen instantly inside his veins. The realization of Moriarty’s plan sank in quickly. John would be the one who decides who dies—Sherlock or Mary.

“Oh, God,” John whispered in horror.

“Oh, don’t be so morose,” answered Moriarty. “It’ll be fun. I promise!”

John’s baser instincts clicked into place and he lunged at the man, “You’re insane!”

But before John could reach him, two large hands were clenching his arms in a bone-crushing grip, holding him back from a now-smirking consulting criminal.

“So I’ve been told.” Moriarty tossed a look back at Sherlock, who hadn’t taken his eyes off John.

John settled himself and the fingers on his arms loosened, but only slightly.

“So here’s how the plan works,” Moriarty explained as he revealed a handgun. “I’m going to hand you this and you’re going to shoot the person you feel should die. It’s quite simple and painless, if you do it right, and you’ll have done me a huge favor.”

John thought he was going to be sick. Not only was Moriarty going to force him to decide, he was going to have John do the dirty work as well. John’s mind raced for anything, anything at all that looked like a way out of this.

“And what would stop me from shooting you instead?” he blurted, then wished he hadn’t. For all of a sudden one of the hands holding his arm pulled away and he heard a click behind him as a cold, metal gun barrel hit his lower back. Two other thugs pointed their guns at Mary and Sherlock.

Moriarty snickered centimeters away from John’s face, “I always like to provide proper incentives.” He then turned and walked toward the kneeling detective. “Don’t I, Sherlock?”

Moriarty ripped the tape from Mary's and Sherlock's mouths. “Any final words?” he asked. “Well, for one of you at least.”

Mary spoke defeatedly, “I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry … for everything.”

John pursed his lips in a tight and understanding smile. “I know. Me too.”

Sherlock remained still and silent. His head was now tilted toward the floor; his eyes darted back and forth. Even in the throes of despair, his mind feverishly tried to devise a plan.

At the same time, John’s brain worked overtime to find a way out of this—a way that neither Mary nor Sherlock had to die. He screamed internally, _Think Watson! Think! What can you do? What would Sherlock do?_

Suddenly John received clarity like he’d never known. A rapid succession of pictures flashed in his mind— _the Fall, the bonfire, the gunshot, the tarmac_ —it was like a series of shutter stops and John’s eyes were truly opened. He saw. … He observed. … He knew. His taut body relaxed a bit, yet a small pool of emotion rose up and almost overtook him as he now thought about the things that were … and the things that never were to be.

“I love you,” John choked, as the confession left his lips.

In shock, Mary turned and gaped at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s head snapped upward, his lips parted and his eyes grew wide as he immediately realized that John was speaking to … _him_.

From that point it was a short, deductive step as to what was going to happen next.

“JOHN, NOOOOOO!” Sherlock wailed.

John quickly lifted the weapon to his own head.

The sound of a gunshot echoed mercilessly throughout the building.

 

* * *

 

 

In the literal second that followed, John couldn’t feel the gun barrel on his lower back anymore and a large mass slumped against his legs. Simultaneously, an additional three gunshots hit their marks. All three of Moriarty’s men along with the mastermind himself, lay dead around John’s feet. Chaos ensued as what seemed like an entire squadron of agents and officers converged on the scene, running and shouting. One of them grabbed Mary and whisked her away. Sherlock was also taken forcefully as he repeatedly screamed John’s name. John continued to stand there, in shock, gun aimed at his temple, as the last few seconds replayed within in his mind and he realized how close he had come to death itself. As his hand dropped to his side, an agent, who had slowly made his way toward him grabbed the weapon, threw it to the side and pulled him toward the door, as he explained, “We have to get out of here! There could be explosives.” John regained his faculties and as the pair sprinted from the building, John, almost breathless, questioned him, “Where are they? Sherlock and Mary. Where?”

“They’re safe Dr. Watson,” the man replied. He then yelled “Everyone down!” as he and John broke free from the building’s confines and John found himself hurled behind a police car. A few moments later, an explosion rocked the warehouse.

After what seemed like several hours, but in reality was only minutes, John regained his composure and a somewhat normal breathing pattern. He finally stood up and began searching frantically through the bevy of emergency and armored vehicles, asking everyone if they’d seen Sherlock and Mary. Sure the agent had said they were safe, but John needed to be certain. Just as his frustration level was at the breaking point, he spotted the now-infamous, black sedan on the periphery and began sprinting toward it. As he approached the vehicle, the door opened and he launched himself inside, landing on a stunned Mycroft Holmes.

“Where are they, Mycroft? I want to see them,” John gasped as he scrambled upright and planted himself next to the elder Holmes brother

“John,” Mycroft acknowledged blandly, brushing his suit jacket with his hands and attempting to remain dignified. “They’re both safe. Mary’s been taken somewhere where she can be questioned properly about her connection with Moriarty. And Sherlock, well, let’s just say he’s been taken somewhere where I can keep an eye on him for the moment.”

John’s body betrayed his relief as he sagged into the cushioned leather and swiped a hand over his face. “Thank, God,” he breathed. “Wait, why are you here? I mean why are you with me instead of Sherlock?” he questioned.

In true Mycroft fashion, sans the eye roll, the gentleman answered unaffectedly, “After what just happened, John, do you really believe I could face my brother without giving him absolute certainty that I personally saw to you safely being escorted back to Baker Street? The man is probably prowling like a caged animal as we speak.”

John silently nodded as he leaned his head back and stared silently out the window. There would be more to discuss in the days ahead, but Mycroft, sensing the beginnings of John’s adrenaline withdrawal, also remained silent as the car hummed along the highway.

As he stared out the window, John’s mind continued to circle. _He wanted to talk to Mary. He needed to talk to Sherlock. If he could only see him-_

“You’ll see him soon enough, John,” Mycroft interrupted. John had given up long ago being surprised when either Holmes brother appeared to read his thoughts before he actually verbalized them. “For now, you’re going to stay at Baker Street under heavy guard so we can make sure the details of this Moriarty business are finalized this time. I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, try to get some rest.”

As if on cue, the car stopped, the door opened and John found himself walking up the steps of his former flat. He passed two hawkish-looking males posted in the main entry as he made his way upstairs. Once inside he stopped momentarily to look at the sitting room (papers and books strewn about) before peeking into the kitchen (experiments haphazardly placed on every conceivable surface). For some reason, a wave of comfort rushed through him and he felt safe and … at home. It was a sensation he hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

John turned to make his way to his former bedroom, but then stopped and looked down the hallway at the closed door that separated Sherlock’s bedroom from the rest of the world. He suddenly found himself crossing the threshold and standing in the middle of it. The detective’s bedroom was the one place in the flat that was impeccably neat and John found himself wanting to consume everything in it. Somehow, even though he didn’t know where Sherlock was, standing in his bedroom made him feel closer to the man. However, exhaustion was taking over quickly, so he kicked off his shoes, lay down on the bed, pulled up the duvet and burrowed into one of the pillows, which smelled so wonderfully of Sherlock.

A few moments before, in a different part of London, in a large home, on a non-descript street, a very desperate man suddenly stopped his prowling to retrieve a text.

_He’s home. MH_

Sherlock quickly turned around as Anthea opened the door and beckoned him with her index finger to follow her. He was led to a well-appointed study with rich, dark paneling and hundreds of dust-covered books. On the desk was an electronic device and monitor, on which a former army doctor’s movements were being tracked. Sherlock scanned the screen and let out a breath when he saw John enter the sitting room at Baker Street, then caught it again when John entered Sherlock’s bedroom. Unconsciously, Sherlock reached out and touched the monitor where John’s face was being broadcast. It’s a pose Sherlock would hold for another half an hour as he watched his best friend peacefully sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

For as peacefully as John slept on one side of London, on the opposite side of the city Sherlock raced frantically through his Mind Palace. The day’s events had created more questions and Sherlock needed to suss out the answers. Of course the first room he ran to was John’s.  _So many questions … that room must provide answers._ However, as Sherlock opened the door, he was taken aback by a figure standing like a statue in the middle of the room. It was John, but not as Sherlock was used to seeing him in the physical world. In the past when Sherlock had rummaged through his Mind Palace, especially through John’s room, John had never been present and certainly not as present as he was at that moment. John’s face was smooth and his eyes were piercing, yet somehow understanding. A soft smile formed on his lips and there was a certain ethereal glow emanating from him. He appeared strong and self-assured. Sherlock was awestruck. He could feel himself being pulled toward this John and yet, he was still standing in the same spot as before. John was looking at him and Sherlock was rendered momentarily speechless. In the past, Sherlock had never believed “beautiful” had a definition; however, in that moment, he would have been hard pressed to find another word to describe John.

As he soaked in the sight before him, Sherlock spoke timidly as if this incarnation would suddenly disappear.

_"John?”_

_“Yes, Sherlock.”_

_“How is it that you’re here … like this … now?”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“Every time I’ve visited this room in the past, I’ve never seen you. You’ve never been here.”_

John smiled knowingly. _“I’ve always been here, Sherlock. I’ve always been here … waiting for you. It’s just that in the past when you visited this room, you were always so preoccupied with looking for facts … that you failed to see the truth.”_

Sherlock stood stunned and ruminated awhile about that.

John finally took a few steps and sat down in his chair, because of course, there was an exact copy of John’s chair in John’s room of Sherlock’s Mind Palace.

As Sherlock slowly began to adapt to the room’s new atmosphere, he spun slowly around as if taking in every molecule surrounding him.

_“Is there something specific you were looking for?”_ John inquired calmly.

_“I-I need to know,”_ Sherlock uncharacteristically stammered. _“Something happened … in the warehouse.”_ His voice sounded slightly agitated.

_“Tell me, Sherlock,”_ John softly commanded.

_“I can’t-“_

_“Yes, you can.”_

_“I don’t know!”_

_“Yes, you do.”_

_“You almost died, John!”_ Sherlock shouted. _“You were going to shoot yourself!”_ Sherlock was now panting. _“You were going to use that gun. Pull the trigger. Sacrifice yourself so that Mary and I could survive. You were going to give up your life for us … for me,”_ the final words came out in a whisper.

Sherlock stared at John, whose face had gone somber. _“Yes, Sherlock. That is a fact.”_

John had put his life on the line for Sherlock in the past. That was a fact. But Sherlock didn’t want just the facts anymore. Not after John had opened his eyes to another dimension. Sherlock darted through the room looking for something more than just the cold, hard facts. He wanted the truth. He _needed_ the truth. Just like John had said. Suddenly, he stopped and knew exactly where to find it.

He turned and walked deliberately toward John, who was now standing and staring intensely at him. As the gap closed between them, the spell was cast and neither one could look away from the other. Sherlock searched the depths of John’s eyes frantically and at first wasn’t even sure what he was seeing. But then the realization rushed through him with hurricane force. This time, the fact _that_ John was going to sacrifice his life was replaced by the truth of _why_ John was going to sacrifice his life. He could hear John’s warehouse confession replaying, _“I love you. … I love you. … I love you.”_

Sherlock wasn’t prepared for that deduction and the type and amount of emotion that accompanied it. Suddenly, there needed to be space cleared in John’s room to store this information, but he couldn’t find any. Sherlock was holding onto something he knew was special, and at the same time frightening. He needed to put it down so he could look at it and study it … place it under a microscope … run it through several experiments and compare all the data.

But instead of all that, he was forced to simply hold it and experience it. It felt like fire engulfing him, then a tidal wave of joy crashing into him, followed by a moment of peace washing through him, then back into the fire again.

However, as sometimes happens, one epiphany opens the door for others. The enlightenment of Sherlock Holmes continued. …

_“You love me,”_ he stated.

_“Yes, Sherlock,”_ John stated.

Sherlock always knew John was noble; the soldier in him. He was protective; the doctor in him. He was loyal; the friend in him. But until that moment, he never realized how much John loved and cared about him.

_“Which means …”_ Sherlock hesitated, _“on the roof of Barts, when I … I mean … you know … when I …”_

_“Fell?”_ questioned John.

_“Yes, that,”_ said Sherlock, feeling relief that he didn’t have to actually say it, and yet aware of a sudden phantom dryness in his mouth, as if he had. _“I did it … because … I loved you.”_

_"Yes, Sherlock,”_ John stated.

_“I loved you. … I loved you,”_ Sherlock slowly whispered repeatedly with astonishment. Then, with sudden clarity, he looked at John and confessed, “ _I love you.”_

It was like puzzle pieces slotting into place and Sherlock’s thoughts formed more rapidly now as he began to pace back and forth in front of John.

_“I love you. You love me. Oh my God! What if you’d succeeded in the warehouse, John? What if I would have had to witness you dying? What if I would have had to go on in life without you, knowing that you were gone … that you were never coming back … because of me?”_ His chest heaved in pain and his breathing became more labored. He clutched John’s upper arms and choked on the words, as tears began streaming down his face. His body shook as his discourse continued and he looked with agony into John’s face. _“Could I have lived without you? Would I have even wanted to? No, I wouldn’t! I couldn’t! To know that I wasn’t able to stop you. My God, John, do you know how that feels?!”_

John silently stared at him for a moment with empathic, tear-filled eyes, then whispered, _“Yes, Sherlock.”_

_Oh. … … Oh._

As the final veil of emotional ignorance was lifted from Sherlock, John disappeared in an instant, along with his room. And the detective was left shaking outside the doors of his Mind Palace, alone and exhausted.

 

* * *

 

 

John was going a bit stir crazy. It had been almost two days of “incarceration” at Baker Street and still no contact from Mycroft. He had spent his time straightening up the flat, watching telly and thinking about what he would say to Mary. But even more perplexing was what he would say to Sherlock when he saw him the first time after the confession.  _Would Sherlock understand? Would he welcome the sentiment? Would he ignore it? Would their friendship be damaged? If so, could it be salvaged?_ Unfortunately, as is often the case, the mental scenarios grew larger and more complex and John felt the anxiety welling up within him. He strode across the sitting room and grabbed his phone to text Mycroft for the 34 th time that day.

_Mycroft, if you don’t call me in the next 5 minutes …_

All of a sudden, he heard the door downstairs open and footsteps on the stairs. John’s heart pounded with nervousness and anticipation. He quickly turned around hoping to see Sherlock, but was disappointed as Mycroft stepped into the room.

“John,” Mycroft greeted with his usual brand of arrogant detachment.

“You said you’d be in touch!” John spoke in an accusatory tone. “I assumed that meant sooner rather than later. It’s been 48 bloody hours, Mycroft! I’ve been locked up in here not knowing what was going on. Not knowing how Sherlock and Mary were getting on.” John clenched his fists. “I sent you a thousand texts and did you even think to answer just one of those? No! You kept me in the dark, again! I want information, Mycroft, and you’re not leaving here until I get it!” And then, almost as an afterthought, “And don’t think I didn’t figure out who was blocking communication between Sherlock and me!”

Mycroft allowed the doctor his rant and when he was for the most part certain that it had come to its inevitable conclusion, he spoke.

“My apologies, John, but I have been otherwise occupied in the course of the last two days making sure that Moriarty is, in fact, dead this time, and that neither he, nor his drones, will cause my brother and the people he cares about any further harm.”

John stood there, staring at Mycroft, and suddenly felt extremely embarrassed for his toddler-like outburst.

“I-I’m sorry,” said John. “Thank you for what you’re doing … for all of us.”

For a moment Mycroft looked a little taken aback, but quickly engaged the Holmesian-tactic of feigning nonchalance in the presence of possible sentiment.

“Do you intend to finalize your divorce?” Mycroft quickly detoured the conversation.

“Yes, but that could take a few more weeks and—“

“Mary will be going away soon.” Mycroft cut off John’s speech and stared pointedly at him.

John stared back, a measure of understanding briefly flashed over his features. He realized that Mary was being placed into some sort of witness protection program. Her identity and all of her dealings with Moriarty, John and the Holmes brothers would be deleted.

“I see,” John replied somberly.

“I’ve arranged for you to meet with her tonight,” Mycroft instructed. “You’ll accompany me to a secure location. It’s best if you don’t know the exact area, which is why I must insist that you wear a blindfold. Although as you are no doubt a student of Sherlock Holmes, I assume you’ll figure out where we’re headed by using senses other than your sight.”

John refrained from rolling his eyes. God, the Holmes brothers certainly had a flair for the dramatic.

“You’ll have 10 minutes to say your farewells before I return to gather your signatures on the divorce documents,” Mycroft continued. “After that, you’ll be led back to the car and return to Baker Street to wait for further instruction.”

Mycroft turned quickly on his heels. John grabbed his coat and followed him out into the night air. After being cooped up for a time, it actually felt good to step outside, even if it was a bit chilly. John sniffed in a large breath and blew it out. He’d had two days to plan what he would say to Mary when he saw her next and yet, as he got into the car, put on the ridiculous blindfold and waited to put his internal navigation system to the test, he was at a loss as to what the appropriate words were.

By the time the car stopped for good and John had removed his blindfold and was being lead into a small, office-like building, he had deduced that they were in the vicinity of Heathrow. His nerves were starting to the get the better of him as he followed Mycroft through a maze of doors and hallways. Suddenly, the gentleman stopped in front of a large, closed wooden door.

“Ten minutes,” he stated, and then proceeded to walk back down the corridor.

John shook internally. He and Mary had been working through the divorce but something about this meeting seemed so final. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, as was his unconscious tell when emotion was involved, and slowly opened the door.

Rich, burgundy-painted walls and cushioned furniture throughout the room actually gave it a nice, warm feeling. A small, wooden table and two padded chairs were set up in the center of the room; Mary was currently occupying one of them. She lifted her head when he came in, a slight, anxious smile on her face. She was dressed casually and her hair had been dyed brunette. Her make-up was much different than the way she had worn it previously and John had to blink to make sure it was really her sitting there. He closed the door gently and approached the softly-lit setting.

“Hello,” he said with a genuine smile as he took the seat opposite hers.

“Hello,” she answered tentatively.

“How have you been?” John asked with sincerity.

“As well as can be expected,” she replied. John frowned with concern and began to open his mouth to speak when she interjected, “No, John. It’s ok. I’ve had good accommodations. I’ve been treated well.” John’s brow unfurled and he settled back a little. Mary continued, “I told them what they needed to know. And that’s the end of it. Moriarty is dead. His minions are taken care of. He can’t hurt you, or me or anyone else, anymore.”

_But there are others._ John silently spoke as he looked at her.

_Yes. There are others who are hunting me and will stop at nothing to finish me._ Mary answered silently in return.

John’s mind was a vortex of thoughts and emotions. All of the initial happiness, then hurt, betrayal, grief and forgiveness he had shared with Mary were warring inside of him. He grabbed her hand and looked down at where their two hands held each other. He could feel her warmth and knew that whatever he said now would haunt him for the rest of his life as it either would feel like it hadn’t been enough or it had been too much. So John said nothing and instead looked at her with compassion and understanding and found the same expression mirrored in her face. They held each other’s hands for several minutes, exchanging smiles, Mary wiping moisture from the corners of her eyes now and then, but neither one saying a word. Finally, there was a light tap at the door and the pair turned to see Mycroft enter the room.

He placed a large envelope on the table and proceeded to withdraw several documents. Signatures were quickly obtained along with the proper witnessing and in five short minutes the divorce was final and Mycroft headed toward the door.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Mycroft spoke to John over his shoulder as he strode out of the room. It was more of a command than a statement. John rose from his chair as did Mary and the two of them hugged each other one last time.

As they pulled away, John spoke, “Thank you, Mary.” His words full of so many layers of meaning.

“Be happy, John,” she replied with a smile.

John returned the smile, then turned and walked out the door, closing it in his wake. He paused for a moment then turned around and brushed the smooth panel with his hand. “Good-bye, Mary Watson,” he whispered.

 

* * *

 

 

Once Sherlock left his Mind Palace, he spent the next 36 hours haranguing his brother about when he could return to Baker Street and see John. The house in which Sherlock was staying was heavily guarded, thanks to Mycroft, so the younger Holmes had no other choice than to lay around in a strop sending nasty, lengthy texts to his brother. When his brother’s phone began blocking them, Sherlock resorted to texting Anthea asking her to forward his threats to the appropriate party. By the end of the day, Sherlock thought he was literally losing his mind. Not only could he have no contact with John (thanks to Mycroft), he apparently had no contact with the outside world. (Mycroft had rerouted all of Sherlock’s incoming texts and calls and most of his outgoing ones.) No experiments to work with. No cases to solve. No violin to play. God, he needed a cigarette right now.

But before he could continue that train of thought the door opened and Anthea walked in.

“I’m here to take you home,” she said.

Sherlock sprang from the sofa so fast even Mycroft’s unflappable assistant was startled. He quickly grabbed his coat and the pair made their way to the waiting car outside. After a 45-minute trek, during which time Sherlock’s mind raced with approximately 57 scenarios of how John and he were going to react when they saw each other again, the car stopped. But before Sherlock could exit, Anthea stopped him.

“John’s not here right now,” she started.

Sherlock looked at her puzzled.

“But that doesn’t mean that he won’t be later,” she finished. “He and your brother had some business to attend to first.”

Sherlock relaxed as he deduced where John was and what he was doing.

“Thank you,” he nodded, then exited the car.

As Sherlock found his way upstairs and into the sitting room, he took in all of the ways he could tell John had recently been in the flat. Then at once, he recalled two nights ago when he watched John sleep, and Sherlock quickly strode to his own bedroom. Once inside he sank onto the bed and proceeded to breathe in John’s scent from the pillow and duvet, clutching them both as if they were the man himself. He let himself indulge for just a few moments and then, deducing that John would be home … _home_ … soon, he padded to the shower.

As he stepped inside and the water cascaded over him, Sherlock felt the symbolic cleansing of a past life. He wasn’t sure what the next few hours would bring, but he knew things would never go back … could never go back … to the way they were. And truthfully, … he didn’t want them to.

  

* * *

 

 

It was 5:30am when Sherlock found himself within the second half-hour of an early-morning violin recital. He had played through Mendelssohn quietly, so as to not wake Mrs. Hudson, and was half-way through Mozart, when he heard the door of the flat open and footsteps quickly ascending the stairs. Sherlock suddenly shifted his violin; the instrument nearly sang the notes of a song he knew was John’s favorite. John had once inquired about the identity of the song’s composer and Sherlock had made up a name, not wanting to reveal that it was an original work that he, himself, had composed especially for his very best friend in the whole world.

Sherlock’s heart felt as if it would beat out of his chest but he continued calmly and lightly gliding the bow over the instrument wanting to greet John in a warm, but non-threatening way. He slowly turned to see John standing in the doorway, his lips formed in a beautiful (there was that word again), soft smile. Although Sherlock had played the song dozens of times in the past, he currently found himself struggling to remember the notes. The two men stared at each other, the battle of the blues going on for several moments. Then Sherlock turned toward the window, continuing to work through the piece, as John walked toward his chair and took a seat for a front-row viewing of his own private concert. A glass of scotch was (thankfully) placed on the side table near John’s chair and he noticed another glass had been poured and set precariously on the arm of Sherlock’s chair.

_Was it Sherlock’s way of showing him affection? Acknowledging the confession? Or, was Sherlock taking pity on him?_ Without actual words, John was a bit lost. He sipped his scotch and watched Sherlock sway back and forth, the notes from his violin soothing John’s weariness. He began to feel melancholy, not so much for what was lost, but for that which never was. A happy marriage … a baby. Like a mirage in the desert, they disappeared as John got closer. He wondered if it would be the same way with Sherlock. John had confessed his feelings in the rawest, most emotionally-charged moment, and yet, he couldn’t be completely sure Sherlock truly understood. He knew that Sherlock was capable of sentiment, but that didn’t mean that Sherlock reciprocated John’s feelings … that Sherlock loved him in return. And yet, Sherlock had greeted him invitingly with that beautiful piece of music John loved and a glass of scotch next to his chair. Neither man would be classified as a great communicator, yet, John longed for more words as the anxiety rose within him.

He was jarred out of his thoughts by Sherlock sitting down across from him. The music apparently had stopped at some point and the violin had been set on the desk. In a rare moment of indulgence, Sherlock, too, took a sip of scotch, staring at the grate where a fire was radiating a good amount of heat and providing a soft glow to the sitting room. John looked from Sherlock to the fire.

“Well, … I’m not married anymore,” he blurted out, not really sure why he felt the need to proclaim it, but somehow finding relief that he did.

The two men sat in silence for several moments; the only sound in the room was the intermittent popping of embers from the fire. Then, Sherlock turned his head to look at John and his voice broke softly through the silence.

“Neither am I.”

By this time John had turned to meet his gaze and looked at Sherlock with a quizzical brow. _Was Sherlock mocking him?_ But the look on the detective’s face told the story—stoic, except for his eyes, which contained an element of fright and vulnerability that John had never seen. Words. Moments before, John had silently wished for words of clarity, and suddenly he recalled a conversation that had taken place between Sherlock and him several years ago. _Married to my work._

John’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened slightly. _Was Sherlock saying what John thought he was saying?_ _Was he opening the door that John had thought was sealed shut that very first night at Angelo’s?_ John had grown sick of subtext and this time was determined to find out what Sherlock meant. He set his glass down on the side table and leaned forward in his chair, legs now brushing very near to his friend’s. He reached out his left arm and placed his hand, palm-side up, on his knee, very slowly, not at all in time with the rapidity of his present heart rate. He had a moment of panic when he thought he may have read the situation incorrectly. But that moment evaporated when all of a sudden, Sherlock’s right hand slipped tentatively on top of John’s, and at the touch, the two instinctively connected in a gentle grasp. They each stared at each other trying to take in this new situation, reveling in the warmth of the touch. John instinctively began rubbing his thumb over Sherlock’s hand and the younger man visibly relaxed as the corners of his mouth raised slightly. John wasn’t so subtle as a genuine grin appeared on his face. He reached out with his other hand and Sherlock quickly grabbed that one too.

Sherlock’s brain was in overdrive as every swipe of John’s thumb on his hand was like an electric shock up his arm. He had been touched in gentle ways before; after all, there was Janine. But he’d never been touched like that by John. And that factor above all else made this new and exciting. Sherlock mentally vowed right then and there that even if it took the rest of his life, this was worth continued investigation.

As he remained captured in this unknown spell, Sherlock could feel his anxiousness rise. He wanted to tell John about his trip to his Mind Palace. He wanted John to know what he’d found. He wanted John to know what he had gone through and what he’d discovered about himself and about John. And, deep down he needed to hear the usual praise John bestowed upon him when he made a particularly brilliant deduction. But more importantly, and this was the true pinnacle of Sherlock’s enlightenment, he wanted to let John know how he felt. Not because it was best for Sherlock, but after all John had been through, Sherlock selflessly believed John deserved to know that he was loved. As he geared himself up to tell John, he realized the strangeness of it all. Sherlock had faced death and potential tragedy so many times in the past, and yet, he was finding that it took more courage and bravery in this moment to tell John his feelings than he’d ever had to garner in the past. Still, as he looked into his best friend’s eyes, Sherlock knew the three little words that conveyed the depth of his feelings … the three little words that John needed to hear.

“I love you,” said Sherlock.

John felt as if he’d been hit by a bus. Those were not the words that he thought would come out of Sherlock’s mouth. John knew that he loved Sherlock but he hadn’t known if Sherlock felt the same. In fact, he had thought at one point there was a chance that Sherlock, although capable of sentiment, might be incapable of feeling actual love. John mentally admonished himself as he replayed the words in his head. Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, loved him. John had hoped for this … dreamed of this … but didn’t have enough faith that he’d ever hear this. And truthfully, until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much he had _needed_ this. He loved Sherlock so much, but suddenly telling Sherlock “I love you”againdidn’t seem like enough. He wanted to help Sherlock delete every cruelty that had ever caused him pain. He knew why Sherlock’s behavior was arrogant, distant and sometimes destructive. It wasn’t because he didn’t feel things. It’s because he felt things more intensely than others did … love, happiness, pain and rejection. Sherlock felt them all at the core of his being. Sherlock needed to know that John’s feelings went beyond love to respect and acceptance. He deserved to know that he was worthy of everything because he _was_ everything to John. And as he looked into Sherlock’s eyes, John knew the three little words that conveyed the depth of his feelings. … the three little words that Sherlock needed to hear.

“I understand you,” said John.

It was Sherlock’s turn to be blindsided. He knew John loved him, but this … this was so much more. He had wandered his whole life down roads of misunderstanding, rudeness and downright evil. He had never felt that he fit in and had learned to pride himself on that fact. However, in that present moment, knowing that the man he loved, understood him and accepted him, was more than Sherlock could have ever hoped for … could have ever dreamed of.

Instinctively, he took his right hand and grabbed the back of John’s neck, gently pulling him closer so that their foreheads touched. John’s left hand grabbed Sherlock’s forearm and held it in place. Their other hands continued in a firm grasp with one another. Their eyes closed and their stillness was only interrupted as they breathed in each other’s warm exhales. Because that’s what Sherlock and John did and will always do … breathe life into each other.

They remained perched on the edges of their chairs for a long while, contently wrapped in one another’s embrace. Sherlock’s lips ghosted over John’s from time to time and John’s fingers smoothed over Sherlock’s arms and hand, gently massaging smooth fabric and equally smooth skin. The fire began to smolder but the warmth of the room lingered. And as morning light began filtering through the panes of 221B, Sherlock and John both knew in that moment that they had so much to hope for … so much to live for … and that after every darkness … there is a dawn.     

 

**Author's Note:**

> Last year, as my mid-life crisis was winding down, I started a Bucket List. And, one of the items listed for me to accomplish within my lifetime was to write and post a Johnlock Fan Fic. So, that's what I'm doing. I love the BBC Sherlock characters, and, like many of you, I think about different scenarios involving Sherlock and John. So, the idea of John having to choose between saving Mary or saving Sherlock started swirling in my mind. Before I knew it, I was having the strongest compulsion I’ve ever had to write down my ideas. It was truly an indescribable experience. In fact, although I can cross off my first Johnlock work from my Bucket List, I may want to keep adding to my list … something like “write and post a second Johnlock Fan Fic!" :)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


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